Chapter 3

THREE

Zoe

‘Hold up. Didn't you all go on holiday last year with them? This… Liz .' I like the way Drew says Liz's name. He spits it out with the venom it deserves.

I nod gently, cradling my gin and tonic. We've escaped into the local pub for a post-first-day drink along with most of the staff. If there's another thing teachers like to do, it's drink. We teachers of London comprehensives are fifty percent alcohol, forty percent cake, ten percent sheer grit and fortitude. Drew and I hide away at a corner table, away from the lively modern languages lot and the peacocking PE department, so I can share with him the details of my awful separation and impending divorce.

‘Yes, turns out they'd been having an affair for about a year behind our respective spouses' backs. That holiday in the Algarve was where it all started, apparently.'

My eyes go a bit hazy to think where and when it would have happened. They used to do the odd supermarket run together. I'm not sure how you start some lusty liaison in the aisles of a euro-mart over the Portuguese custard tarts and Fanta Limon. But after the holiday, they didn't know how to stop, Brian said. I think of all Brian's words since, the vernacular he's used to describe their relationship – words like addictive, alive, thrilling. I remember my words back – words like selfish, mother, fucker. However it made him feel, it was still one whole year of lies. Liz's husband, Greg, dug deeper and found all sorts in the aftermath. Everything from proof of midnight phone calls, to Travelodge visits and a secret folder of photos including one with a dildo. I didn't want to see that, but Greg kept it all. As the kids at school would say, he kept those receipts.

‘Well, he's a fucking swine and if I see him, I will tell him that to his face,' Drew says, taking a long sip of his pint. I smile gratefully, but can't imagine it, as Drew is gentle and not particularly athletic. But I like how he's defending my honour and picked a side. ‘I messaged Louise. She says you are welcome at ours any time – she is distraught, but she wants you to know how much we love you.'

‘I appreciate that, I do.'

‘How are the kids?' he asks.

‘Angry,' I say, with a stab of sadness, thinking of the effect all this has had on them. ‘Not surprisingly, most of that comes from Lottie. She's refusing to see him.'

Drew winces. He knows my Lottie. He knows that the girl is a hotbed of hormones and opinion. I would be lying if I didn't say I liked the fire she's exuded in sticking up for me and how we've grown closer as a consequence, but I don't like seeing how hurt and sad she is about all of this.

‘Brian's solicitor is telling me that as we're potentially sharing custody, she has to see him, but my solicitor is arguing that she has rights, too. If she doesn't want to see her father, then we can't force it.'

‘Well, I think Brian's got to understand that much.' Drew puts a hand to mine. ‘I'm so sorry, Zoe.'

‘Oh, please don't apologise. Unless you're also having an affair with Brian?'

‘No. I wouldn't know how to have an affair. Anyway, if I did, Lou would probably castrate me and feed my balls to the cat.'

I scrunch up my nose. ‘That's an image I didn't need in my head, Drew.'

He laughs and for a moment, that sound is a relief. I need to balance out all this awfulness with something else, anything else.

‘Are you OK?' he asks.

I really don't know how to answer. I realise that for a while, many people will ask out of obligation and then I will feel socially obliged not to make them feel uncomfortable and have to fill that silence with a stock answer. I'm here. I'm still standing. Just like Elton John.

‘I'll get there.'

‘We're maths people. We can find our way anywhere with the right co-ordinates.'

I can't help laughing. He made a maths joke which I find particularly funny but maybe that's the problem. Maybe I am boring. Maybe that's why Brian left. I find quadratic equations fun and that's not a huge selling point for any person.

‘MATHS CREW! Why do you always hide from the fun?' a voice suddenly pipes up. It's the lovely Mia, and beside her a familiar face from this morning: Jack. I can feel the blush rise in my cheeks. For no other reason than I was not expecting to see him this morning, and there's possibly some shame at the idea of a complete stranger knowing my business and having seen that start point when my marriage completely unravelled. Here's someone who knows that I'm not OK. He is pretty much how I remember him from that wedding – the scruffy hair, the kind eyes – though he's swapped his shiny suit for flat front khaki chinos with brown, weathered boots and a light blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

‘I'm doing the rounds with Jack here. Drew, this is Jack Damon – he's joined the study supervising team as a cover teacher. I believe you already know Zoe…' Jack and Drew shake hands while I try to work out what Mia knows about how I know Jack. ‘Jack and Ed were mates at university, and we persuaded him to come and use his charms on the children.'

Jack catches my eye and smiles. After he observed my lesson today, we didn't have time to chat; we were busy shepherding children, then he had to run to another class. Thank you, Mrs Swift! I learned a lot! he shouted as he threw his satchel over his shoulder. It was hard to think of him as a teacher. He looked far too carefree.

‘So did you teach before?' Drew asks him.

‘I taught English as a foreign language in Italy, but I've been in between jobs since then. Mia and Ed think teaching may be the way forward,' he explains. ‘I must say I learned a lot from Mrs Swift this morning, though.'

‘One of our best, I'm not surprised,' Drew adds.

I punch his arm to downplay the compliment.

‘You can call me Zoe when the kids aren't around,' I joke. ‘Did you learn about sticking in worksheets straight?'

‘Yes, and I learned about labelling my axes. You really don't like an unlabelled axis…'

For some reason, I giggle when he says this. ‘This is true.'

Mia grabs a stool, dragging it to the table to chat to Drew about weddings and summer holidays. Jack stands there with his hands still in his pockets and I get up to face him, both of us smiling. I feel like I know him, but I don't. In fact, I want to hug him, but I have an inkling that might scare him.

‘But seriously, thank you for letting me sit in. Very much appreciated.'

‘You're welcome. Least I could do… you know, after the way you helped me back in May. I didn't know if I was ever going to see you again. But I'm glad I have and that I get to thank you again. In person. Less of a… wreck.'

There is a sincerity in his smile that makes this whole interaction less awkward. ‘Don't mention it. To be fair, you saved me from the dancefloor, too.'

‘This is true,' I say, pointing at him.

‘Did you ever get your coat back?' he asks me.

‘Oh yeah, someone from the hotel delivered it the next day.'

He laughs under his breath, grinning until I work it out for myself.

‘Oh… you brought me back my coat?' I say, surprised.

‘I handed it to a young lady at the door. Your daughter? I didn't want to make a fuss. I was also slightly too embarrassed to say I was someone you met at the table plan. And it was a nice coat. I didn't want you to lose it.'

I stand there for a moment to take in that kindness, slightly emotional because the coat is from Uniqlo and it's very warm.

‘Don't get me wrong… I also went back to have some cake and get in the photo booth to leave some incredibly animated self-portraits with an inflatable cat. But at the end of the evening, I may have had a conversation with someone in the cloakroom and rescued it.'

‘How did you know?'

‘It was the last one there, so I had a punt.'

I still don't know how to respond to this man in front of me. It's like someone has sent him to me to help reaffirm my faith in people again. There are dicks out there but there are also nice people, nice people like you, Jack, who do deep dives into cloakrooms and return coats to their owners.

‘It is my favourite coat,' I tell him, touching his arm. ‘Thank you…'

He looks down at my hand. Was that weird? He thinks I'm touchy. I take the hand back. ‘My pleasure… so…'

But before he has a chance to finish his sentence, a woman swans over and puts an arm over Jack's shoulder. ‘JACKERS!' It's Claudia from the school office, possibly here to finish what she started at that wedding. Her stance with him is overly familiar, fuelled slightly by a half pint of Becks. Jack's face reads as a mixture of startled and at a loss of how to handle this.

‘Good summer, Claudia?' I ask her, trying to intervene.

‘Oh, you know. I hear you had an absolute shocker,' she says, bluntly. Jack winces at her lack of tact.

‘It could have been better,' I reply meekly.

‘I heard the news from Joyce. She thought something was up when you changed your social media picture, so she went to check your husband's profile and he's changed his picture to some selfie of him with another woman so we kind of assumed something had happened…'

Ouch. From a holiday romance to an affair to a social media partner. Is it terrible to say I think I preferred it all when it was a secret, when I didn't know what it was? Now it feels like someone ripping off a plaster incredibly slowly, revealing that messy wound underneath not just to me but to the entire world via Instagram. Roll up, roll up. Come and look at the car crash that is my love life.

‘Was it an affair then?' she asks, seemingly unaware that I want the ground to swallow me up. ‘I reckon my ex was cheating on me. Fuckers, the lot of them, you know?'

Jack stands there, his expression changing at being labelled as such, but I can tell he's also unimpressed by the way Claudia just wants to lay this all out bare here, in the corner of this pub with its patterned carpets and sticky tables.

‘I… It was… It's just all quite fresh, you know?' I say, words lining the inside of my throat, but I can't seem to get them out. I don't want to put her in her place, I don't want to tell her anything else. I just can't talk about it all yet. But as I look around that area of the pub where the staff of Griffin Road seem to be gathered, enjoying their drinks, I also feel a sense of paranoia. Who else knows? How far has the rumour mill travelled? What misinformation lies there? Who else has seen this picture of Brian and Liz? And it feels exhausting, humiliating to have to face it all. ‘I'm just going to excuse myself, guys, to the loo… Lovely to see you, Claudia. And see you again, too, Jack.'

I'm sorry, Jack. You'll have to deal with Claudia yourself this time. As I walk towards the ladies' toilets, I can feel all that emotion overwhelming me. It's like a crushing in my chest, an inability to make sense of what's happening, to single out a thought, a feeling. Occasionally that feeling springs out of my eyes, tears that could have filled the Thames by now, but sometimes, it's just an intense sadness at how much has changed in a split second. Usually on a weekday like this, I'd rush home from work, I'd have a cup of tea. Brian would fall in a couple of hours later. Wine would be opened, pasta would be boiled, the kitchen would be a hive of activity where we'd laugh and share stories. Shouting at Dylan for leaving wet football boots by the back door, Lottie complaining I've not grated enough cheese. Piling on to sofas, more tea, slippers, my feet meeting Brian's on the footstool, sharing a throw and shouting at the television. Some warm vision of a routine has suddenly been ripped away from me. Gone. And it wasn't my choice. I didn't think it was awful. I loved it. I miss it intensely.

I enter the ladies' – grateful it's empty – and take to a stall to settle myself, resting my forehead against the door. Bloody Claudia. She's a sharer. Such is the way of social media these days that we all know the complete ins and outs of how her most recent relationship broke down, complete with screenshots of text fights and photos outing his cheating behaviour. I chose not to do the same. I didn't want people's pity. I didn't know how to post something with any type of angry edge. I sit on the closed toilet and get my phone out to read the text on the screen.

How did your first day back go?

It's Dylan. Dylan has taken a concerned child stance with all of this. From a lad who was normally attached to a PlayStation, and who I saw occasionally when he was hungry, it's nice to see the empathy that was under the surface.

All good. Have you gone straight to training?

Yeah, Max's mum is giving me a lift back. Love ya, Mum.

And an admission of love. Usually, I'd only see that when he wanted a favour.

Love you too x

I stare at the message and then notice a conversation from Lottie from when I first got out of school.

OMG you'll never guess who I saw on the bus I saw Chloe but then I didn't talk to her because I don't want to because at the end of the day her mum and my dad got together and I blame her mum really because she was obvs unhappy in her marriage and so you think the way to get out of your marriage is to go after my dad? No way. Anyways, I blanked her and it was awks but to hell with that whole family if you ask me. ISTG I will go after Liz if I see her, like properly. LY mum. I'm going to go into town and get chips HMU if you need anything but still save me din dins xxxx

Lottie has all the words, all the emotions, and I worry about whether she's over-processing or actually doing the good and proper thing which is to express it all. They're both such different kids but, by god, the love I feel for both of them sits deeply in my soul. I'd move mountains for each of them. These are usually mountains of laundry but still.

I hear voices enter the pub toilet and I'm not sure why, but I move my feet up, just in case it's Claudia who's followed me in here to ask me more about the catastrophes of my life.

‘It's fine, it's empty… Quickly…'

‘Are you sure there aren't cameras? Could we get caught?' Christ, that's a man's voice.

I clutch my phone to my chest, still half dangling my feet in some sort of strange pose that I think must be doing wonders for my core. I should cough to let them know I'm here but strangely I can't do it and stay silent.

‘You told me on our honeymoon that this was one of your fantasies.'

‘Yeah, but…'

I recognise the voices. It's Mia and Ed from school and, from the sound of things, they have a reason to be in here that doesn't involve relieving their bladders or handwashing. I arch my eyebrows. They're young, they're consenting and married so it's really none of my business but I'm not sure I want to hear what that might entail or look them in the eye tomorrow in the staff room. Also, this might make me sound a tad old but… hygiene? I am quite a way off shagging someone in a public restroom, though I could be more tempted in a posh London hotel. The sort that have fabric handtowels and ylang-ylang in the soap.

I hear both bodies moving into the cubicle next to me and a body pushed up against the partition dividing us. Oh dear. Are they really? I hear a giggle and a zip unfastening. They are. It's breathy, that's for sure. Is that a slurping noise? What is she slurping? Face or… Oh dear. Oh, he likes that. She laughs. I can't be here. I slowly unlock the door. Please don't be a squeaky door. This is easy to do, just tiptoe out of here, don't breathe, don't make a sound. I tuck my handbag over my shoulder and make tentative moves out of the door to hear what can only be described as a low-grade grunt. Tiptoe quicker, Zoe. I don't just tiptoe, there are hand movements, too, like the Grinch, like I'm wading through air. When I get to the main door, some mischievous urge overtakes me, and I let it slam behind me to snap them back into the room.

‘Your feet, they'll see your feet!' And I laugh at the sound of what can only be Ed climbing onto a toilet and then a crack of ceramics.

‘You look like you're mid-dance move,' a voice tells me in the low-lit corridor and I swivel to see Jack standing there, observing me creeping out with my hands still in mid-air like dinosaur claws.

I put my hands down, smiling. ‘I was drying my hands, obviously,' I say, blushing. Jack. Jack with his satchel. I like the satchel. It makes him look like some sort of earnest student. I imagine it's filled with sepia-paged books, a scarf and a leather notebook filled with bad poetry. He cocks his head to one side, that kindness in his eyes shining through again. There is something about Jack that makes me stop and take a breath.

‘Don't think me weird,' he tells me. ‘I just came to find you to see how you are. Claudia was a bit of a twat, to be fair. You seemed upset.' His expression and tone are warm, and I smile in reply. ‘Are you OK?'

‘I'm glad it wasn't just me being sensitive then. How did you extricate yourself from her clutches?' I ask him.

‘I told her I was going out for a smoke. It's my go-to get-out clause with her now.'

I laugh. ‘Well, that's kind of you, Jack – thank you. I just… It's very new. The separation. I haven't worked out how you reveal that sort of new information to people.'

‘You don't. You tell her it's none of her business,' Jack says, matter-of-factly. ‘Your private life should never be up for discussion like that.'

‘Possibly,' I say, grinning at this young man's wisdom. I adjust my handbag over my arm, and lean round to poke my head out to the main pub area. It's time to leave, to remove the risk of getting drawn into more emotionally draining conversations. ‘Enjoy the rest of your evening, I'm going to head back to my kids. It's good to see you again.' I put my hand on his arm, and he looks down at it, like last time. I forget that I don't know him as well as I feel I do. I retract it immediately, hoping I haven't made him uncomfortable.

‘Or… maybe,' he ponders. ‘I think I'm done here, too. HR made me complete five thousand staff training questionnaires today – I failed my fire safety quiz five times.'

‘How does one do that?' I ask.

‘The quiz told me if the school was on fire and a kid refused to leave that I should leave them. I plain refused.'

‘You'd carry thirty kids on your back out of there?' I ask.

‘Naturally. But to do that, I'd have to eat. Have you eaten?'

I shake my head.

‘Well, if you could eat anything now that might make your life a little better, what would it be?'

‘Nando's,' I say, without hesitation.

He smiles. ‘Then let's get some peri-peri.'

‘Let's.' I don't know what I've agreed to, but it would seem remiss to give up the option of Nando's. We stand there for a moment and smile at each other, in silence. I can't put a finger on what I'm feeling, but it's the opposite of rejected and emotionally forlorn. It's a good feeling. The silence is interrupted, though, by the door to the ladies' suddenly flying open, and there stands a very sheepish Mia and Ed.

‘Jack, Zoe…' giggles Mia. Ed is a strong shade of blush. We all share glances and I look down to see Ed's chinos wet up to the ankle.

‘You OK, mate?' Jack asks, smiling broadly.

‘Don't even…'

‘Diving for something, were we?' Jack asks and I laugh, loudly.

Jack

I've always admired people who order anything more than a medium at Nando's. Medium is a comfortable level of heat, it tingles the tastebuds and is a pleasant culinary experience. Hot makes me sweat around the collar; it's something I order in front of friends to appear brave and manly, but digestively and physically, it hurts.

I watch as in front of me Zoe digs into her hot chicken wings like it's nothing, no sweat moustache, no wincing, just an ‘aaah' which makes me think this chicken is soothing her soul. To compensate for sticking with medium, I have ordered a whole chicken to myself, to make me appear more manly than I am. Look at me, I know how to do protein. I will be taking at least half of this thing home with me, though. I could put it in sandwiches, which is possibly the most mature thought I have ever had in my life.

‘You look happy,' I say, through a mouthful of chips.

‘Well, in the depths of my soul, there is still a sense of fracture and loss,' she replies plainly, ‘but the chicken is giving me temporary reprieve. The heat is numbing the emotion.'

She doesn't even flinch. My eyebrows would be sweating at this point. There is something about her calmness, the serenity in her face. Beneath all of that, you sense this isn't the case, but she masks it well. We've found a cubicle in this branch with banquette seating, the premium seats, if you ask me. It's not a particularly busy night and I only know this as I haven't had to go in search for sauce bottles.

‘Thank you for this. I think I needed it,' she says, smiling at me, licking peri-peri from the tips of her fingers.

‘Chicken?'

‘Just some space to breathe… Away from people and their opinions on my marriage ending. It's been a busy summer. I haven't had much time to myself.'

‘I can also leave you alone with your chicken and chips if that would help?' I tell her.

She shakes her head, grinning. ‘Don't be silly. I appreciate the company. I like how you're quite far removed from the situation, really. I don't have to explain too much to you. I know for a start you're on my side completely.'

‘Team Zoe, obviously – all day long,' I say, stuffing a corn on the cob into my face. That probably did not look attractive, but I don't think she minds. ‘But I take from all of this that Brian is gone?'

‘Yes.'

‘Good. Left you or thrown out? You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to…'

She doesn't look at me, her focus on her platter of chicken. ‘A combination of both. He'll say he left but really, I couldn't bear the betrayal, the lies that kept unravelling. My big moment was when I took some scissors to his favourite jumper. I pretended the washing machine attacked it.'

I laugh as she pulls a face remembering it. ‘Power move, you go, girl.' I put out a fist, she bumps it reluctantly. Her face warms to a laugh and I remember that look from the wedding. I like the way her eyes light up, the way she tips her head back slightly, so her neck is exposed.

‘You said you know the woman?' I ask her.

‘Knew. She will stay in the past tense as far as our friendship goes.'

‘I hate her.'

‘Thank you.'

‘I also hate Brian.' She doesn't respond to that. I'm not sure if maybe bringing all of this up is too painful or that, deep down, she isn't quite sure how to hate her ex-husband yet. I guess it's harder to rearrange and suppress feelings like that. She stops to steady herself, running her finger along the edge of the plate.

She looks up at me. ‘So, Jack. I want to hear more about you. I feel like I'm eating chicken with someone I don't know.'

‘Like a blind date,' I suggest.

She chokes a little at the comparison and her cheeks fill with colour. ‘Or not…' I smile with relief to notice she's not too offended. ‘I'm just nosy. I remember you telling me you lived with Ed at university?'

‘Yeah. He was a biologist, I was a botanist. He was an exceptional housemate.'

‘I can imagine. He bakes a good muffin…' she mumbles, a forkful of coleslaw in her mouth.

I raise an eyebrow. ‘Oh yes, an expert with muffins. Good rise, excellent distribution of fruit, good shape.' I don't know why I use my hands to demonstrate.

‘Which is important.' She tries to contain her giggles and not let this descend into innuendo. ‘So, a botanist. That means you're good with plants?'

‘Well, anything that can be planted really. It's my thing.'

‘So, you can tell me to sod off if it's none of my business, but then why are you cover teaching?' she asks.

I like the way she asks. Most people ask that question with judgement in their tone, but I can hear the care and curiosity in her voice.

‘Oh, I guess since university I've drifted between jobs. I had to put family first for a bit. I once worked on a cruise ship for a month…'

‘Were you in charge of the anchor?'

That was funny. ‘I worked the casinos. I managed to get in some travel. It was fun.' I'll omit the part about how it was a huge orgy behind the scenes, and I suffered liver damage from the drinking. ‘I also was a manager of a Zara. I still have my staff discount card if you ever need…'

‘Continental, well-wearing knitwear?'

‘Bingo. So, when I saw Mia and Ed over the summer, they told me that your school was crying out for teachers, and they said they thought I'd be excellent at it so… here I am.' There's a look in her eyes. I hope that's not pity. But I also sense some curiosity over what I've said about family. I see her pause, as if she's wondering whether to pry further. Either way, I don't mind that my route into adulthood has not been traditional. I have time. In my head, I feel I'm still allowed moments to freewheel and try on different jobs before I settle, but I guess that can look unappealing. It can look like I have no staying power. ‘And how long have you been a teacher?' I ask her, changing the focus from me to her.

‘Literally, left university, got my QTS and have been teaching ever since. It's all I know.' I can hear hints of sadness in her voice. Given the age of her kids, you can tell that, unlike me, her life went in one singular direction and being caught off course has thrown her.

‘It just means you're expert level. I bow to your greatness and years of experience.'

‘And what do you know of my experience?' she says, smiling broadly.

There's a silence. This has descended into innuendo again, hasn't it? I remember this from the wedding. There was helmet talk, we've dipped into muffins and now we're chatting about her experience. She doesn't seem to mind the innuendo, it makes her smile, and I will also admit that I enjoy being a participant. There is something intriguing about her, that makes me want to keep sitting here, to find out more. It makes me think her husband was an idiot to let someone like this go.

‘Well, I saw someone great today. Someone who knew exactly what they were doing, who knew how to take control, who had all the right words.'

She shakes her head, silently laughing to herself, and picks up another of her very spicy chicken wings, her teeth tearing at the flesh. I look at the curve of her jaw as she chews and she side-eyes me, pondering. I don't think she can quite read me. Is she here for my company or is she here for the chicken? I feel the pendulum swings in the favour of the flame-grilled wings; I'm only a sidekick so she doesn't have to sit on her own.

‘I think you'll be a good teacher. The girls will like you, for sure… Younger ones who look like you will always have a head start with all the hormonally charged teen girls,' she tells me, looking over at me for a moment.

‘Ones who look like me?' I enquire.

She narrows her eyes at me. So she thinks I'm attractive? ‘Well, the girls have either you or Mr Lindsay in IT. He wears boat shoes and sweater vests. I reckon they'll be following you and your Zara knitwear around for sure.'

I laugh.

‘Do you have a girlfriend?' she asks me. I shake my head. I sense she's asking out of curiosity rather than personal interest. ‘Is this because you're still trying out different things? Like the job situation?'

It's painful to know I can be read like a book so quickly.

‘That would be a yes.'

‘Longest relationship?'

‘Seven months, Cara Maddison. She asked me to move in with her. Before we'd had a chance to discuss it, though, she'd announced it on Facebook and made moving postcards that she sent out to all her family.'

She laughs, and to hear Zoe laugh, to see it, is deeply satisfying. I'm seeing a side of her that may be authentic and not steeped in grief. And yes, it's funny now but back then my friend, Sarah, misread it for an engagement announcement and bought herself a new dress.

A message notification beeps on Zoe's phone, and she looks down at her peri-peri covered fingers, before reaching for napkins.

‘Do me a favour, can you just reach into my bag and grab my phone?'

I am peri-peri free and retrieve her phone for her, placing it on the table.

‘My passcode is 8624,' she tells me.

‘Zoe, we've literally just met,' I say, in faux shock that she'd share something so private with me.

‘I trust you. I know where you work,' she jokes.

I put the digits into the keypad and see a message notification from someone called WANKER. I hazard a guess at who that might be as every sinew in her body seems to stiffen. ‘Is that his middle name?' I ask, trying to bring some levity to proceedings.

She takes a breath. ‘Yes. It has Germanic roots. Very common in the Bavarian region.'

I am not sure what the message says but there is a strong urge to protect her from it, from him. ‘Would you like me to read the message out? Let you know if it's safe?'

She looks at me and then shrugs her shoulders. I open up the conversation, trying not to see the message before where Zoe has sent him a middle finger emoji.

‘Zo, Lottie has blocked me now. We need to come up with a way of sorting this. I am her father. I have rights. Please remind her of this. B. There's also a kiss at the end.'

Zoe exhales a huge sigh.

‘Shall I reply?'

‘No. Leave him hanging on read. It'll piss him off.'

Her eyes seem to change colour with anger, frustration, and I hate the way just a singular text is like a jab to the ribs and is so immediately affecting for her. There's the immediate instinct to take that feeling away, to bring that other Zoe back in the room. ‘You OK?'

‘Who knows? I hate that he's on my phone. The bloody gall of the man that he can end a text with a kiss, too. I'd rather kiss a wart-covered penis at this point.'

I put my piece of spicy chicken down. ‘Well… don't do that. Shall I get rid of the message? Then the message isn't there. Shall I block him?'

She slumps her shoulders. ‘No, I can't be seen to be petty. Lawyer's orders.'

‘Maybe you would feel better if I was on your phone?' I ask her. I don't know why I said that. It's not like I'm going to go into her phone and beat the shit out of her husband, but it felt like the right thing to say.

‘You want to slide into my contacts?' she enquires curiously.

‘For teaching emergencies. You know, just in case I ever run out of…'

‘Glue sticks?'

‘Well, there's that, but it feels like you need to counteract the presence of the wanker with someone who…'

‘Isn't a wanker?'

‘Who cares. Who you can chat to whenever you want. And who buys you chicken.' She stops for a moment to look at me. I can't tell if that's confusion or amazement. ‘Can I be the anti-wanker?'

‘That sounds like something I'd use to clean my oven,' she jokes.

‘I like you, Zoe, but I draw the line at doing your chores,' I say, holding a hand to the air. She smiles. I carefully create my contact. THE ANTI-WANKER. She looks over while I do this, still unsure.

‘Can I also do something else?' I ask her.

I pick up a napkin and wipe a smear of sauce that was on the underside of her chin. She blushes, realising it was there. But the contact unsteadies me, to feel her skin against my fingers, to focus on her eyes up close. Is this flirting? I don't know, but there's something about her that I like, that I can't help but be drawn to, a light inside her that I want to get close to. Jack, I think you may have a crush.